LIBRARY 

v  LOS  AKG. 


TWO  DEATHS 
IN  THE  BRONX 


WORKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

DISCORDS,  $I.OO 

SONNETS  FROM  THE  PATAGONIAN,  $I.OO 

In  Preparation 

AT   THE   BAR 


Two  Deaths 
In  the  Bronx 


By 

DONALD  EVANS 


PHILADELPHIA 
NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 
MCMXVI 


COPYRIGHT,    1916 

NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 


Printed    March     1916. 


CONTENTS 

TWO   DEATHS   IN   THE    BRONX:    P.   9 
PORTRAIT  OF   NANCY  TREVORS:    P.    15 
DINNER  AT  THE  HOTEL  DE  LA  TIGRESSE  VERTE 

i.  TERRACE:  p.  17 
H.  LOYALTY:  p.  18 

DELIRIA 

I.    TWO   MODERN    LOVERS:    P.    1 9 

ii.  MASSED  SCREAMS:  p.  20 

MARISE  KISSING  HER  SHOULDERS:  P.  21 
ONE  OF  THE  MAJOR  SAINTS:  P.  24 

FOR   THE    HAUNTING  OF   MAUNA 
I.    BODY  OF  THE  QUEEN:  P.  25 
H.    VALLEY  OF  DESIRE:  P.  26 
MOTHER  OF  GOD:  ACUTE  ALCOHOLISM:  P.  28 
MARY   DOUGLAS    BRUITING  THE   BEAUTY   OF 
THE   HANDS  OF  MONSIEUR  Y.  :   P.   3! 
AMBERGRIS 

i.  STARS  OF  PARIS:  IN  APRIL  OF  A 

THURSDAY  IN  THE  MORNING:   P.  34 

ii.  UNE  NUIT  BLANCHE:  p.  35 

ROUGE  FOR  VIRGINS 

i.  THE  EGOIST:  p.  36 
ii.  ADOLPHE:  p.  37 


201976: 


GROTESQUES 

I.  AT  THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  BOTTLE:  P.  38 

ii.  HUGH  FROTHINGHAM:  p.  41 
THE  BEGGAR:  p.  44 

OUBLIETTES 

i.  IRIS:  p.  46 

II.    GREY  ROOM  :  P.  47 

III.  NIGHT  SOUNDS:  IN    ESTRANGEMENT:   P.   48 
RICHES  AND  REVENGE:  P.  49 
DOMESTICITIES 

i.  THE  OPERATION:  p.  53 

II.    FROM  A  MEADOW  OF  GARDENIAS:  P.   54 

in.  INFIDELITIES:  p.  56 

IV.  THE  BERWIND  HOWARDS:  P.   57 
FRAIL  PHRASES:  P.   59 


To: 

Michael  Bennett:  Pitts  Sanborn:  Edwin  A.  Robinson: 
Marie  A,:  C.  Pierie  Garde:  Jane  Haven:  Gilbert  Seldes: 
Helen  Henderson:  Bushnell  Dimond:  Elvira  Andreani: 
Lay  ton  Crippen:  Carl  Van  Vechtcn:  William  R. 
Murphy:  THE  REVEREND  Herbert  Throgmorton:  Endi- 
cott  Rich:  C.  Howard  Bonte:  Robert  P.  Lowry:  Kenneth 
Macgowan:  Arthur  D.  Ficke:  H.  T.  Craven:  A.  Gil- 
bert Clarke:  Howard  Shelley:  Steve  Talbot:  Owen 
O'Caedth. 


TWO  DEATHS  IN  THE  BRONX 

THE  sodden  stretches  of  the  months  of  pregnancy 
Had  had  but  one  green  orchid ; 
That  was  their  sole  pauseful 
And  suspended  moment  of  beauty. 
He  had  brought  it  home  to  her  at  dawn 
On  the  day  before  Christmas, 

And  he  was  a  little  drunken  as  he  dropped  it  on  her  bed. 
But  it  was  a  green  orchid, 
And  pleased  she  took  it  unquestioningly. 
He  had  bought  it  with  many  more 
Hours  and  hours  earlier  for  the  girl, 
Who  was  then  amusing  him. 
In  some  way  it  had  got  into  his  pocket — 
Or,  perhaps,  it  was  his  buttonhole. 
He  had  noticed  it  as  he  entered  the  abode  of  maternity, 
And  with  his  quick  sense  of  values 
He  offered  it  in  a  tenderness. 
He  would  have  sent  her  orchids  every  day, 
But  he  had  no  money  to  spare.     He  must  live. 

He  was  spending  the  nine  months  with  her — 
He  had  promised  to  do  that — to  take  care  of  her 
Until  their  child  was  born — 
Then  she  would  go  away  with  the  child. 
She  was  grateful,  and,  in  a  way,  content. 
He  had  taken  an  apartment  for  her  far  from  Broadway, 
And  sooner  or  later  every  night  he  came  home  to  her. 
In  the  morning  she  took  him  his  breakfast  first, 
Then    gave   him   a  cigarette,    and    made   his   telephone 
calls— 


There  was  always  one,  at  least, 

To  arrange  for  a  luncheon  or  tea  hour, 

For,  continuously,  he  was  deeply  in  love. 

He  told  her  all  his  secrets, 

And  by  the  eighth  month  she  had  come   in  her  daily 

talks 

To  call  three  women  by  their  first  names. 
He  had  loved  each  one, 
And  he  still,  it  appeared,  loved  the  third. 
She  had  lent  him  all  her  money, 

And  he  was  paying  it  back  during  the  nine  months — 
He  made  her  an  allowance  each  week, 
And  he  felt  very  proud 

That  he  gave  her  so  much  of  his  scant  income. 
Every  fourth  week  or  so  he  would  be  held  up 
On  the  way  home  and  robbed, 
But  she  got  the  three  weeks'  money, 
So  she  was  too  wise  to  question  or  to  remember. 

Soon  there  were  the  doctor  and  the  nurse, 
And  the  last  waiting  week  had  arrived. 
He  was  hard  to  seize  then,  for  he  had  so  many  engage- 
ments. 

There  was  a  hint  of  a  new  and  lovelier  girl. 
But  she  wrote  him  notes  and  left  them  on  his  bed, 
And  went  about  her  plans  in  silence. 
She  made  a  cheque  out  to  him  for  all  the  money 
She  had  saved  and  put  in  the  bank, 
For  she  expected  to  die  with  her  babe, 
And  she  wanted  him  to  take  the  money  and  bury  her 
And  the  child  in  the  absurd  graveyard  in  the  mountains, 
Where  her  adorable  drunken  father  lay. 

10 


It  was  having  had  such  a  father 

That  let  her  understand  him. 

She  put  the  cheque 

In  the  bottom  of  her  trunk, 

In  which  were  all  her  theatrical  costumes, 

And  with  the  cheque  she  put  the  biography 

She  had  thought  out. 

The  biography  was  for  the  doctor 

And  his  report  to  the  authorities. 

She  was  his  sister  and  she  was  married — 

Her  husband  was  in  the  West  and  was  detained 

From  coming  to  her  by  imperative  business. 

Thus  she  smoothed  out  to  niceness 

The  troublesome  details  of  the  function  of  birth. 

In  the  last  night,  with  the  birth  pains 

Gripping  her,  she  came  to  his  bedroom. 

For  he  had  come  home  earlier,  and  her  nurse 

Was  asleep  after  a  tiring  day. 

She  told  him  of  the  cheque  and  her  heart's  wishes. 

He  listened  tolerantly,  and  wondered  why 

It  was  so  fascinating  to  watch  a  woman  in  labour. 

She  was  silent  in  her  agony, 

And  he  rather  liked  her  for  that. 

Then  he  fell  to  speculating  on  the  cheque, 

And  he  asked  himself  whether  there  was 

Any  likelihood  that  she  would  die. 

It  seemed  a  shame,  but  it  would  be 

A  solution  of  the  problem. 

She  really  wasn't  equipped  to  go  on  alone 

With  the  handicap  of  a  baby, 

And  he  would  give  her  the  serene  burial  she  longed  for. 

11 


There  was  four  hundred  dollars,  he  learned, 

But  he  would  spend  every  sou  of  it 

For  her  funeral  and  the  child's. 

One  could  give  a  flashing  party  for  four  hundred  dollars, 

But  that  was  outside  the  question — 

He  was  merely  the  steward  of  her  estate. 

Next  day  he  had  to  leave  early — 

The  delivery,  he  was  told,  was  still  some  hours  off. 

But  he  would  keep  in  touch  by  telephone, 

And  he  must  hear  "Manon"; 

It  had  all  been  arranged  for. 

It  was  difficult  to  telephone, 

Yet  he  did  after  nightfall — during  dinner — 

And  he  turned  a  trifle  pale  when  he  learned 

That  she  had,  in  truth,  died — and  the  babe  with  her. 

In  fact,  he  felt  a  bit  sick. 

There  was  much  to  attend  to ; 

He  ought  to  get  the  cheque  at  once, 

And  make  the  plans  for  the  burial. 

He  sent  for  a  newspaper  to  look  up  an  undertaker, 

And  it  chanced  that  the  only  advertisement  he  could  find 

Was  of  one  who  promised  adequate  disposal 

Of  the  dead  for  seventy-five  dollars. 

He  could  not  help  it — it  was  thrust  at  him ; 

And  the  child  would  only  be  a  trifle  more — 

At  the  most  one  hundred  dollars  for  both, 

And  then  there  would  be  three  hundred  dollars  left 

unneeded. 
It  was  sentimental  to  think  about  the  dead — 

What  did  it  matter  where  one  was  buried  or  how? 

12 


And  he  could  get  the  cheque  cashed  to-night, 

And  this  was  the  night ! 

With  three  hundred  dollars  he  could  give  a  party 

That  would  be  memorable. 

And  he  had  not  done  much  thus  far  for  her. 

She  was  of  a  loveliness, 

And  he  was  sure  he  would  cease  to  wander  when  he  got 

her. 

Death  had  simplified  everything — 
It  was  no  use  being  morose. 
He  could  afford  a  taxi  now 
To  get  uptown  quickly  for  the  cheque. 
But  he  would  telephone  the  undertaker  first, 
Then  a  half  dozen  people  for  guests, 
And,  last  of  all,  her  who  had  come  at  the  fitting  hour 
To  make  his  heart  glad  and  at  rest. 

It  was  all  swiftly  done, 

And  the  whir  of  the  motor  was  grateful  music. 

He  had  done  cruelly  by  himself  to  deny  his  soul 

For  all  these  months  the  napery  of  Rector's 

And  the  gold  service  and  the  glass. 

He  loved  beauty  so! 

He  remembered  it  was  absinthe 

That  had  made  this  dear,  new  woman 

Kind  to  him  that  first  night,  so  in  memory 

He  ordered  absinthe  for  himself, 

While  she  and  his  guests  drank  Pommery. 

He  knew  he  had  behaved  admirably  through  the  long 

nine  months — 
He  felt  it  would  give  a  touch  of  sterling  honesty 

13 


To  his  character,  a  stupid,  basic  honesty 

He  had  always  so  needed. 

And  he  let  himself  sink  away  from  all  the  immediate  past 

That  had  been  so  incongruous  and  impossible. 

One  way  or  other  the  undertaker 

Would  do  all  that  was  necessary — 

He  needn't  even  visit  the  apartment  again. 

And  somehow  he  knew  she  would  invite  him 

To  go  home  with  her 

When  they  got  rid  of  their  guests. 

He  ordered  another  absinthe! 


PORTRAIT  OF  NANCY  TREVORS 

THEY  sat  in  her  drawing-room  amid  easeful  silence 
in  tolerant  enmity. 
The  men  were  three,  and  her  husband  was  the 

third. 

This  in  its  way  amplified  his  urbanity. 
His  suavities  were  of  ivory. 
He  was  more  irreproachable  than  her  virginal  teacups. 

She  gave  her  lips  to  the  moment,  and  her  fingers  nestled 

in  a  bowl  of  apricots. 
The  tea  was  amber,   and   the  pungent  lemon  and   the 

blanched  sugar 
Seized  and  caressed  the  eyes  as  each  man  took  a  proffered 

cup. 

It  loosed  the  tongues,  and  the  four  were  free. 

As  four  portraits  on  a  wall  come  to  life  they  stirred  the 

silence  with  a  babbling  that  gleamed. 
The  drawing-room  was  draped  in  a  wistaria  mist, 
And   the   flutter  of  the  phrases  patted   the  cheek  with 

an  alien  charm. 

In  but  a  short  while  she  had  become  dominant, 
And  then  she  wrapped  herself  in  the  soothing  nerves  of 

excitement. 

The  three  were  lost  in  the  pursuit  of  fragrance. 
Their  chairs  were  their  kingdoms,  and  there  were  no 

other  empires. 

Archly  then  her  voice  dared  : 
"Will  you  have  another  cup,  my  beloved?" 

15 


It  was  three  cups  that  rang  to  her,  and  her  husband's,  it 

chanced,  was  the  third. 
She  smiled  over  her  adroit  and  ample  confession,  and  it 

was  enough. 

She  had  done  with  the  hour, 
And  she  let  the  uneasy  hush  turn  to  a  hodden-grey. 


16 


DINNER  AT  THE  HOTEL 
DE  LA  TIGRESSE  VERTE 
I.  TERRACE 

AS  they  sat  sipping  their  glasses  in  the  courtyard 
Of  the  Hotel  de  la  Tigresse  Verte, 
With  their  silk-swathed  ankles  softly  kissing, 
They  were  certain  that  they  had  forever 
Imprisoned  fickleness  in  the  vodka — 
They  knew  they  had  found  the  ultimate  pulse  of  love. 

Story  upon  story,  the  dark  windows  whispered  down 
To  them  from  above,  and  over  the  roof's  edge 
Danced  a  grey  moon. 

The  woman  pressed   her  chicken-skin    fan   against  her 

breast 

And  through  her  ran  trepidant  mutinies  of  desire 
With  treacheries  of  emotion.    Her  voice  vapoured  : 
"In  which  room  shall  it  be  to-night,  darling?" 
His  eyes  swept  the  broad  facade,  the  windows, 
Tier  upon  tier,  and  his  lips  were  regnant : 
"In  every  room,  my  beloved !" 


17 


II.  LOYALTY 


I      AM  kissing  your  wayward  feet — 
The  rumours  of  flight  are  broken, 
Your  hands  are  a  dear  pale  token. 
I  adore  you  to  touch  me,  sweet, 
And  now  are  the  frail  vows  spoken. 

It  is  bravely  the  words  are  said, 
Faith  is  a  flash  on  our  faces — 
We  mock  as  the  mummer  traces 
The  dawn  when  the  month  is  dead, 
Loyalty  mussed  like  your  laces. 


18 


DELIRIA 

I.  TWO  MODERN  LOVERS 

THE  lovers  seek  the  boudoir- 
Awkward  and  amorous, 
Excited  but  emotionless, 
And  over  them  hover 
Desolate  ardours. 


II.  MASSED  SCREAMS 

ANGULAR  arrogance 
In  the  urge  of  rage 
Scratching  the  infinite 
For  a  relief 
In  the  impotence 
Of  unbelief! 


20 


MARISE  KISSING  HER  SHOULDERS 

IT  is  Easter  morning, 
And  my  beloved,  with  a  quaint  belated  zeal, 
Has  fled  the  city 
To  hunt  for  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane. 

I  woke  an  hour  since, 

And  sat  up  in  my  bed, 

Which  last  year  I  had  the  artisans 

And  drapers  fashion  as  a  water-lily. 

The  pillows  are  in  green  chenille, 

And  the  sheets  are  great  wisps  of  olive  satin, 

Then  comes  a  warmth  of  velvet  ivy 

To  crush  the  cold, 

And  beneath  everything 

I  lie  in  cream  white. 

I  sat  up  the  hour  since, 

And  mused  for  a  moment 

On  the  ashes  in  my  hearth, 

Wishing  they  were  mauve  instead  of  grey — 

Death  in  mauve  would  be  so  much  nicer — 

And  then  I  performed  my  usual  morning  office — 

The  kissing  of  shoulders! 

I  was  generous  this  morning — 
I  kissed  the  right  shoulder  first, 
Although  I  am  secretly  in  love 
With  the  left. 

Then  it  was  that  I  realized 
The  beloved  was  seeking 

21 


The  Garden  of  Gethsemane, 
And  I  was  alone. 

I  must  have  a  companionless  day, 

A  waste,  lonely  day  indoors, 

For  manifestly  I  could  not  venture  forth 

Into  Fifth  Avenue  alone. 

To-day  it  would  be  unpleasantly  disturbed 

With  clerks  and  sempstresses — 

To  remind  one  of  one's  bills — 

And  well-to-do  vulgar  folk, 

The  women  frantically  eager 

To  flaunt  their  bad  taste  in  dress. 

I  love  Fifth  Avenue, 

But  I  am  a  cat, 

And  so  to-day  I  could  not  endure 

The  alien  contacts 

At  my  elbow  of  the  crowds  that  pass. 

Obviously,   then,   I  must  remain  within. 

At  first  I  seemed  to  have  no  resources, 

But  I  looked  at  my  bed, 

And  adored  it, 

And  my  wounded  self-esteem  was  soothed. 

I  bade  the  discords 

Of  awkward  solitariness 

A  curt  farewell. 

It  came  to  me  that  it  was  imperative 
That  I  should  spend  the  day 


22 


Free  of  the  slavery  of  thinking. 

I  have  never  been  forced  to  think — 

It  is  my  ever-living  pulsing  fear 

That  I  may  be  brought  to  it  some  day. 

But  how  not  to  think? 

How  not  to  spoil  the  epigram — 

She  u'as  born  to  be, 

Not  to  thinkf 

In  a  caressing  whisper 

The  Avenue  unrolled — 

I  found  the  marriage  of  the  hours! 

For  I  would  write  a  book, 

And  furiously  scrivening 

With  the  minutes  flying  past 

I  should  not  be  degraded  to  thought; 

I  should  be  writing; 

Which  is  a  refuge  from  cerebration. 

And  I  was  so  joyous 

That  I  bared  my  shoulders 

For  a  second  time, 

And  kissed  them. 

This  time  I  was  self-indulgent,  and  approached, 
Reverently,  the  left  shoulder  first ! 


23 


ONE  OF  THE  MAJOR  SAINTS 

HE  had  for  years  been  denuding  himself  of  facts ; 
He  lived  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  but  he  eluded 
The  present  as  easily  as  he  pushed  back  the  past, 
And  the  future  meant  for  him 
Only  the  monumental  painting  he  had  projected. 
He  had  triumphed  over  his  own  intellect,  and  had 
Carried  himself  back  to  the  state  of  Adam. 

One  day  I  visited  him  and  found 

Him  hard  at  work  with  his  brushes; 

He  no  longer  conversed  with  one, 

So  he  grunted  me  greeting  not  stopping  his  labour. 

I  was  interested  just  then  in  the  Saviour, 

His  quotidian  majesty  of  poise  and  sublime  sureness  of 

pose; 

And  I  walked  back  and  forth  in  the  studio, 
Reviewing  enthusiastically 
The  superb  efficiency  of  the  Man  of  Galilee. 
I  forgot  for  an  instant  how  close  to  the  first  womb 
My  friend  had  returned,  and  suddenly  burst  forth: 
"Was  not  Jesus  Christ  the  bigger  man  because 
After  all  He  knew  He  was  a  faker?" 
And  the  painter  turned,  annoyed  at  my  interrupting  him ; 
"But  who  was  Jesus  Christ?" 

His  picture  is  a  masterpiece — 
It  is  called  "Humanity." 


24 


FOR  THE  HAUNTING  OF  MAUNA 
I.  BODY  OF  THE  QUEEN 

SUAVE  body  of  the  Queen,  she  gave  me  you, 
Misting  in  still,  warm  rains  of  tenderness — 
But  kept  herself,  and  we  are  each  betrayed. 
You  are  her  mistress,  and  she  makes  of  me 
Another  mistress!     Playthings  are  we  both, 
When  we  thought  she  meant  us  for  full  sovereignty; 
It  was  not  regal,  and  her  throne  is  stained. 
She  bade  you  seek  me,  and  your  singing  feet 
Ran  quickly,  surely;  you  held  out  your  hands. 
You  had  no  fear  because  you  felt  my  heart 
Leap  as  you  laid  your  white  breast  under  it. 
We  had  no  prides  to  conquer  as  we  kissed, 
For  we  knew  kinship  in  our  overthrow. 
Yet  now  she  stands  apart  and  questions  us. 
How  can  she  question — leave  me  out  of  it — 
But  you,  her  body,  her  sweet  source  of  joy, — 
How  can  she  then  divide  herself  from  you, 
And  calmly  reckon  what  the  gain  may  be? 
The  hour  will  come  when  she  will  tire  of  us, 
And  all  your  softness  will  be  broken  up, 
Your  rioting  lips  chilled  with  an  ashen  wind. 
There  is  a  hint  of  vileness  in  the  air, 
And  on  the  strings  a  dance  of  ironies, 
With  love's  scarecrow  jigging  wearily.     .     . 
Still  I  have  you — so  I  am  not  afraid ! 


II.  VALLEY  OF  DESIRE 

YOUR  hat  was  of  an  angle,  and  the  veil 
Was  impudent  with  seven  maddening  spots — 
With  the  mouth  left  free  to  drink  the  cool  sun- 
light, 

That  amber-laden  swept  the  afternoon. 
Your  gown  caressed  you,  and  your  level  gaze 
Fed  on  the  greenness  of  the  cleansing  Spring — 
Peacocks  and  yew  trees  mirrored  from  your  eyes. 

I  walked  beside  you,  and  my  hands  were  glad — 
They  ran  the  lines  that  weave  your  body-spell. 

"Why  not  to-night?"  I  asked,  and  then  you  smiled, 

Half-flattered  by  my  wish,  but  with  wide  wings 

You  gave  unyielding  answer,  "You  forget 

You  had  my  lips  only  four  days  ago ; 

W^e  wait  two  more."     And  there  was  in  your  tone 

Urbanity  that  showed  a  steady  pulse. 

I  was  not  rebuked — you  paid  acknowledgment 

For  the  fluttered  voice  that  broke  with  stressed  desire; 

Still,  this  was  no  hour  for  the  faggot-fire. 

Miracle  woman,  you  were  far  astray — 

Your  mouth  is  wine,  and  all  your  tender  flesh 

An  easeful  meadow  for  my  weariness, 

But  it  was  not  flame  I  asked  for.     It  was  talk, 

The  winding  minutes  of  great  friendliness, 

And  the  immense  companioning  of  you, 

Keen,  vivid,  rich,  warming,  and  wholly  sweet. 

I  have  waited  twenty  years  to  talk  to  you, 

And  all  that  empty  time  I  have  searched  for  you. 

26 


Now  that  I  have  found  you  shall  I  wait  six  days, 

And  fill  the  interval  with  other  things? 

There  is  nothing  else — the  world's  dropped  away. 

For  twenty  years  I  have  slept  upon  your  breast — 
You  did  not  know  me,  but  you  felt  me  there! 


27 


THE  MOTHER  OF  GOD:  ACUTE  ALCOHOLISM 

THERE  was  a  snake  in  the  gutter — 
She  was  positive  of  that. 
It  had  shown  its  head  twice  until  the  snow  had 

forced  it  back — 

When  it  snowed  it  was  good  for  begging,  too ; 
But  the  wind  to-night  was  too  freezing — 
It  hurried  people  along. 

She  could  see  the  money  lumps  on  a  dozen  girls'  legs — 
What  need  had  they  for  money  ? — 
And  she  had  but  one  dime 
That  felt  bad  for  the  hour's  intoning: 
"Help  a  poor  old  woman  who's  starving, 
For  the  sake  of  Mary,  the  Mother  of  God." 

The  snake  could  not  reach  her  while  it  kept  on  snowing, 

Yet  the  snow  might  stop. 

She  ought  to  be  away, 

But  the  bad  dime  didn't  help  much. 

Why  wouldn't  people  listen? 

Her  left  hand  was  numb,  but  she  couldn't  put  it 

Between  the  newspapers  wrapped  around  her 

Under  her  cloak, 

For  there  was  the  frozen  carnation 

That  had  to  be  dangled 

Before  the  eyes  of  passersby 

If  the  quarters  were  ever  to  come  in. 

The  carnation  was  now  three  days  old, 

And  of  a  mustard  shade, 

For  saloon  dust  discolours. 

But  yesterday  it  had  brought  her  a  half  dollar  at  noon — 

28 


It  was  not  to  be  discarded. 

She  wished  she  knew  whether  snakes  feared  carnations. 

If  it  had  a  longer  stem  she  might  get 

Her  hand  inside  the  cloak 

And  let  the  flower  show  outside — 

But  a  man  must  have  worn  it  in  his  buttonhole. 

And  she  was  afraid  to  stick  it  in  the  cloak's  fold, 

Lest  the  wind  blow  it  away. 

There  wouldn't  be  many  more  people  now 

Until  the  theatres  were  out. 

It  was  a  bad  stand,  anyway — 

Why  had  she  come  here  ? 

The  lights  were  too  bright. 

Here  was  someone  opening  a  purse.    She  droned : 

"Help  a  poor  woman,  for  the  Mother  of  God." 

It  was  no  more  than  a  dime, 

But  it  was  a  good  one  this  time — 

Two  more,  and  she  could  leave  the  snake 

There  in  the  gutter. 

Maybe  she  could  pass  the  bad  coin  between  the  good  ones. 

Then  the  theatres  would  be  out. 

She  was  glad  there  weren't  many  people  passing — 

She  was  tired  of  approaching  them; 

They  never  heard  all  she  said, 

There  was  no  use  of  her  making  any  sound. 

If  she  could  only  sit  down  comfortable  and  warm 

In  a  chair,  and  hold  her  hand  out — 

Then  she  could  bury  her  head  in  her  cloak, 

And  she  wouldn't  see  the  gutter, 

And  the  snake  couldn't  see  her. 

There  would  be  dozing,  and  when  the  midnight  came 


She  would  count  the  coins, 

A  lot  of  dimes  and  some  quarters, 

And  there  wouldn't  be  anything  more  to  think  about, 

And  she  could  throw  away  the  carnation. 

Here  was  a  crowd  again — 

The  theatres  were  letting  out  earlier  and  earlier, 

And  it  was  not  snowing  as  hard. 

She  wondered  if  the  snake  knew  that? 

She  had  to  speak  again ;  it  was  her  last  chance, 

For  everybody  was  hurrying  by;  they  always  hurried — 

And  then  there  would  be  nobody. 

She  needed  both  her  hands, 

For  there  were  coatsleeves  to  be  touched. 

But  she  mustn't  lose  the  carnation  until  she  knew 

Whether  the  morrow  demanded  it. 

There  was   only   her   hair — she   might   stick   the   dirty 

flower  in  it, 

And  then  she  was  free  to  fight  the  snake. 
It  was  the  best  hour, 
But  she  had  always  made  a  mistake. 
People  never  heard  all  she  said, 
And,  besides,  they  gave  too  little. 
She  must  speak  quickly — her  throat  burned, 
But  words  must  come.    A  few  would  answer. 
Dimes  weren't  worth  many.     Anything  would  do : 
"Please  help — the  Mother  of  God." 


30 


MARY  DOUGLAS  BRUITING  THE  BEAUTY 
OF  THE  HANDS  OF  MONSIEUR  Y. 

MONSIEUR  Y.,  the  artist,  has  haunting  hand*— 
Fingers  that  are  unforgetable. 
I  have  sat  for  arrested  spaces, 
Pondering  the  influence  of  their  inhibitions — 
Gazing  at  a  battlefield  where  emotions 
Had  been  in  tragic  conflict. 

The  hands  are  to  the  first  glance  decently  formed, 
But  they  awaken  curiosity  rather  than  admiration, 
For  the  essence  of  their  exquisiteness 
Is  not  quickly  to  be  felt. 

Their  beauty  is  draped — as  all  enduring  beauty 
Must  be — with  indifference. 

Monsieur  Y.  has  always  been  indulgent  to  me. 

His  studio  I  seek  as  an  asylum 

From  the  wolves — my  dear  friends. 

He  says  he  is  not  my  friend, 

And  for  the  whim  I  have  believed  it. 

One  November  afternoon  when  I  knew  he  would  be 

Heartily  engrossed  on  his  new  canvas, 

And  I  was  chilled  with  Broadway's  ineptitudes, 

I  sought  his  presence. 

It  was  even  a  chillier  welcome  I  received, 

But  there  is  sometimes  a  flame  in  frigidity 

That  gives  the  longed-for  social  shock. 

He  lit  the  lamp  for  the  tea  kettle, 
And  went  back  to  work, 

Leaving  me  to  the  half-shadowed  intimacies  of  house- 
wifery. 

31 


The  tea  service  is  simply  done, 

So  I  was  soon  free  to  regard  him, 

And  his  brusqueness  stirred  me  to  protest. 

I  parried  first — for  I  am  not  stupid — 

And  asked  whether  he  thought 

It  was  a  strain  of  pity  for  the  fallen  Madonnas 

He  painted  so  admirably  that  had  given  his  hands 

An  immaculate  augustness  that  was  smoothed  away 

Into  a  catholic  simplicity. 

That  was  grandiose,  but  it  won  a  rejoinder. 

I  had  not  whispered  of  the  spirituality, 

But  it  was  that  he  offered  me. 

I  had  seized  the  nuance. 

"You  have  an  insistent  way,"  he  said, 

"But  insistence  has  its  boundaries. 

Yet  you  are  a  mirror,  and  a  mirror 

Is  sometimes  a  solution. 

It  glimmers  back  one's  futility. 

I  like  my  hands  more  than  you  do, 

For  they  are  the  symbols 

Of  the  only  triumph  I  shall  ever  know. 

They  are  the  trophies  of  my  conquering. 

A  long  time  ago  I  was  absorbed  with  love  for  a  woman, 

Who  was  merely  touched  with  fragrant  pleasure 

Because  I  worshipped  her. 

She,  too,  was  in  love,  but  not  with  me. 

We  met  often, 

And  spent  long  hours  together  and   alone, 

When  only  the  sheerest  intervals  separated  us. 

We  luncheoned,  we  dined,  we  theatred  together. 

We  walked  and  talked.    And  we  tea-cupped. 

She  gave  me  of  the  sight  of  her  loveliness 

32 


In  abundant  generosity  because  I  adored  her. 

And  all  the  time  I  had  my  hands.    All  the  hours 

I  was  at  her  side  they  ached  to  touch, 

To  move  over  her — not  to  grasp  in  bestial,  imperative 

fashion, 

But  to  finger,  to  question  the  softness  of  her  flesh, 
To  sing  as  they  crept  over  her, 
To  give  the  quick,  wild  quivers  of  possession. 
But  because  of  the  pride  of  the  saffron  highway 
I  never  touched  her; 

I  held  back  through  all  the  evasions  of  our  communion. 
She  came  to  like  me  very  much,  though  I  never 
Thrilled  her  to  a  fine  surrender. 
But  it  has  worked  its  way  out — 
For  she  was  brought  to  realize 
That  because  I  did  not  make  a  false  tempo 
With  the  hungry   hands  there  was  homage  to  be  paid 

them. 
Now,  I  think  it  is  really  time  for  you  to  go. 

There  was  the  secret  of  his  perfect  hands — 
They  were  still  full  of  yearning  blood. 
All  his  desire  had  leaped  out  into  them, 
And  it  remained  there — 

The  hands  were  two  lovers,  vainly  waiting  for  their 
hour. 


35 


AMBERGRIS 

I.     STARS  OF  PARIS— IN  APRIL  OF 

A  THURSDAY  IN  THE  MORNING 

WE  have  lain 
Breast  to  breast, 
Brain  to  brain. 
For  the  rest 
All  is  vain — 
Mixed  with  pain. 
Unconfessed 
Is  our  stain. 
Naught  is  plain 
Save  the  chain — 
So  again 

Ends  the  quest — 
Fibre-fain, 
Breast  to  breast, 
Brain  to  brain. 
Joy  is  best — 
Stars  again 
In  the  rain! 


34 


II.     UNE  NUIT  BLANCHE 

AND,  Daughter  of  the  Moon,  this  interlude 
Snows    the    sweet    pastures    in    between    your 

breasts. 

Cold  from  the  sea  I  rise,  and  vaguely  brood 
With  all  desire  far  off,  and  we  are  guests 
In  upland  meadows  where  the  silence  rests. 

You  are  lost  to  me  for  love  wantonness, 
But  now  I  touch  your  girlhood's  wraith  in  flight, 
Retrace  the  years  you  were  companionless. 
For  as  I  kiss  your  mouth  you  make  the  night 
Quiet  and  virginal  and  green  and  white. 


ROUGE  FOR  VIRGINS 
I.    THE  EGOIST 

BEYOND  doubt  he  was  an  egoist, 
At  every  angle,  in  every  breath; 
But  he  was  always  seeking  a  woman 
With  whom  he  could  abandon  it, 
Cast  it  away  for  a  blended  unity 
That  would  yield  a  rich,  absorbed 
And  impersonal  common  personality. 


36 


II.    ADOLPHE 


HE  was  of  a  scant  passion  at  that  odd  hour, 
But  he  caught  the  smooth  content 
Of  the  question  spread  out  before  him — 
It  roused  him  to  barbaric  acknowledgment: 
"I  have  no  quarrel  with  virginity, 
Though  many  have  called  it  cold, 
And  others  have  found  it  barren, 
For,  after  all,  it  can  be  raped!" 
There  was  his  voice  that  crept  out 
Hungrily  in  hunt  for  a  fresh  immaculate. 
His  was  not  lubricity. 
He  had  merely  resisted 
The  enervating  influence 
Of  the   untold   centuries  of  civilization. 


GROTESQUES 

I.  AT  THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  BOTTLE 

AS  my  chin  pressed  against  the  arm 
Of  the  amiable  Hildegarde 
I  was  brought  to  realize 
That  I  had  neglected  to  shave, 
And  as  I  knew  that  I  should  not  take  full  pleasure 
At  dawn  in  the  ceremony  of  the  bath 
If  bristles  were  on  my  face 
I   determined  that  I  would  go  forth 
In  search  of  a  barber,  a  whimsical  barber, 
For  surely  he  must  be  a  whimsical  coiffeur, 
To  have  his  shop  open  as  late  as  four  o'clock. 

The  Hildegarde  did  not  wake  as  I  dressed, 

But  she  smiled  me  good  fortune  on  my  adventure. 

When  I  reached  the  street 

I  decided  I  would  go 

In  the  direction  the  wind  was  blowing, 

And  so  it  was  to  the  East  I  went. 

Soon  I  came  upon  stairs  that  seemed 

To  lead  down  a  great  way, 

And  the  entrance  portal  was  lighted, 

And  convinced  I  said: 

"Here  will  I  descend.     It  must  take  me  to  my  barber/' 

Flight  after  flight  I  wound  down, 

And  the  lights  increased  in  number, 

I  was  almost  forgetting  my  errand  in  my  excitement. 

Wlien  suddenly  I  saw  a  sign, — "Barber  Shop  de  Luxe" 

38 


Over  the  door  of  a  still  more  brilliantly  lighted  room. 

Many  barbers  and  many  patrons  I  noticed  as  I  entered, 

And  I  vowed  I  would  never  patronize  any  other  estab- 
lishment. 

But  as  I  glanced  about  I  could  see  no  chairs. 

Everything  else  was  there — but  no  chairs. 

Then  an  attendant  came  up  to  me,  "Shave,  sir?" 

"Yes,  but  where?"  I  replied,  "there  are  no  chairs." 

"Ah,  they  are  not  needed,"  he  explained.     "Just  look." 

I  followed  his  finger,  and  beheld  a  client, 

Who  had  entered  just  ahead  of  me. 

He  had  removed  his  cravat  and  collar, 

And  his  barber  had  given  him  a  razor. 

With  a  detached  nonchalance 

He  deftly  cut  off  his  own  head, 

And  gravely  handed  it  to  the  barber, 

Who  quickly  lathered  the  face  and  began  his  ministra- 
tions. 

Then  I  perceived  the  other  barbers 

Were  all  busied  in  the  same  way, 

While  the  decapitated  leaned  against  the  walls 

Leisurely  waiting 

The  return  of  their  heads. 

A    barber    finished — hot    towel,    cold    cream,    massage, 

perfume, 

And  with  the  head,  the  hair  immaculately  brushed 
And  moustache  waxed, 
On  a  silver  tray, 

He  smilingly  passed  it  back  to  its  owner, 
Who  placed  it  on  his  neck  with  both  hands, 

39 


Nodding  thanks,  while  he  dropped  silver 
In  the  barber's  palm. 

It  was  my  turn  and  my  collar  was  off. 

I  held  a  razor,  and  it  all  seemed 

Much  the  better  way  to  be  shaved. 

I  raised  the  blade  to  my  throat,  but  then  I  stayed  my 

hand, 

For  at  my  feet  I  saw  a  great  pool  of  blood. 
"Why  is  that?"  I  asked  the  barber. 
He  showed  a  little  shrug: 
"It  was  nothing.     A  customer  was  careless. 
He  put  his  head  on  insecurely, 
And  it  fell  off.     It  was  slightly  bruised, 
And  it  did  not  become  him  as  well 
When  he  put  it  on  again." 

"One  cannot  be  too  careful 

In  one's  care  of  one's  person,"  I  thought. 

"The  man  has  lost  much  blood. 

He  will  be  very  pallid  to-morrow." 

And  then  I  changed  my  mind  about  being  shaved. 

I  covenanted  with  myself: 

"I  will  raise  a  beard." 


40 


II.     HUGH   FROTHINGHAM 

ON  his  thirtieth  birthday  he  awoke  in  a  dire  mood, 
And  he  was  of  no  heart  to  grasp  at  the  flying 

hours 

For  little  minutes  of  happiness. 
He  knew  he  was  no  longer  a  boy,  and  youth  being  to 

him 

The  one  true  virginal  beauty  of  life, 
The  knowledge  of  his  own  passing 
Filled  him  with  unspeakable  sadness, 
And  he  felt  his  soul  tainted  with  staleness. 

It  was  noon  when  he  breakfasted  in  bed, 

And  as  the  servant  brought  in  on  the  tray 

Several  packets  that  had  arrived  by  the  post 

It  aroused  no  curiosity  within  him. 

In  truth,  he  was  as  one 

Stricken  with  a  mortal  malady, 

And  listlessly  he  picked  up 

Even  the  box  that  the  inscription  told  him 

Came  from  the  woman  with  the  hands  of  covering  flame. 

When  the  box  was  opened  and  he  saw  the  gift 

There  came  a  slight  indrawn  breath 

Of  petulance  and  hurt  protest. 

She  had  sent  him  a  bundle  of  white  collars, 

And  the  mystery  of  such  a  choice 

Struck  him  as  a  cruel  heaping  on  of  misery. 

"Have  I  need  of  collars?"  he  sighed  weakly. 

"Why  is  she  so  unkind?" 

41 


With  numbed  senses  he  dragged  himself  from  bed, 

And  bathed  and  dressed,  feeling  angrily 

That  everything  looked  drab. 

When  it  came  to  the  selection  of  neckwear 

He  reached  for  the  bundle  of  collars  she  had  sent. 

He  would  wear  one,  and  then  descend  on  her. 

He  would  reproach  her  for  her  stupid 

And  inane  jest, 

And  she  would  have  to  listen 

To  all  his  spleen  against  Fate  for  arranging  life 

So  that  his  youth  should  depart. 

He  would  make  her  day  unhappy,  too  ; 

That  would  be  her  punishment. 

He  moved  toward  the  mirror  to  arrange  his  cravat, 
And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
He  tasted  no  pleasurable  thrill 
As  his  glance  sought  for  its  mirrored  twin. 
He  was  old.     It  was  ghastly,  grotesque. 
He  involuntarily  shut  his  eyes  as  he  reached  the  glass. 
He  for  a  moment  could  not  look; 
Then  with  fingers  clasping  his  hips  he  gazed. 
"Is  this  another  torture?"  he  all  but  screamed.     "It  is 
not  I.    Where  am  I?" 

He  was  looking  at  a  boy  of  twenty-three. 
Graceful  as  a  silver  poplar. 

A  gasp  swept  him  to  another  mirror, 
And  it  gave  him  the  answer. 

"Madonna  of  the  white  collars,"  he  cried,   "you  have 
done  it. 


42 


"Your  gift  has  given  me  back  my  boyhood. 
"This  is  a  collar  for  an  innocent  lad, 
"And  it  takes  away  the  burden  of  ten  years. 
"Why  did  I  not  think  of  it  myself?" 

Singing  he  tore  from  the  house, 

And  made  his  way, 

Choked  with  ardour, 

To  the  boudoir  of  the  beloved. 


43 


THE  BEGGAR 


LET  us  always  be  prodigal  towards  beggars, 
For  they  are  the  sentinels 
At  the  outposts  of  civilization. 
If  the  mendicants  should  desert  us 
We  should  have  no  choice 
But  to  surrender  to  efficiency, 
And  aristocracy  must  perish. 
From  the  world  would  vanish  all  the  soft  vices, 
Extravagance,  frivolousness,  greed, 
Selfishness,  luxury,  wastefulness, 
And  life  would  grow  intolerable 
Under  the  curse  "All  men  are  equal." 

Let  us  never  pass  a  beggar  without  giving, 

For  just  as  society  would  crumble 

If  the  derelicts  ceased  to  waylay  us, 

So  would  the  soul  shrivel, 

And  none  could  save  his  own  soul. 

The  beggars  are  our  saviours,  for  we  give, 

And  thus  make  atonement  for  our  sins. 

If  a  man  toss  a  silver  piece  to  a  beggar 

On  his  way  to  the  first  rendezvous 

With  his  wife's  friend 

He  will  not  feel  remorse  for  the  liaison. 

He  has  been  generous  to  one  of  God's  creatures — 

That  will  absolve  him. 

If  a  man  throw  a  gold  piece  to  a  beggar 
He  may  be  faithless  to  his  mistress, 


44 


Or  desert  his  wife. 

His  gift  will  excuse  all, 

And  he  may  stroll  along  the  boulevards 

Sustained  and  nourished 

By  his  own  milk  of  human  kindness. 


OUBLIETTES 
I.     IRIS 


I 


T  was  better  so 

When  you  did  not  know- 
A  short  while  ago. 


You  are  kind  indeed, 
And  my  hungers  feed 
Since  you  feel  my  need. 

But  I  pay  in  pain 
And  how  very  vain 
The  few  hours  I  gain. 

In  the  old  distress 
There  was  little  stress 
For,  companionless, 

I  would  paint  the  days, 
With  my  heart  a  phase 
Of  an  ancient  phrase. 

Now,  imperative 
For  my  soul  to  live 
Is  the  joy  you  give ! 

I  am  torn  with  fear 
You  will  disappear, 
When  you  are  not  near. 

It  was  better  so 

When  you  did  not  know — 

46 


II.     GREY  ROOM 

DEAREST, 
But  not  the  nearest — 
If  I  call 
Will  you  come 
To  the  dying? 
I  am  lying 
Brumal,  dumb 
By  the  wall. 
Dearest, 

But  never  the  nearest 
When  I  fall 
Through  the  gods, 
Or  the  odds. 


III.     NIGHT  SOUNDS:    IN  ESTRANGEMENT 

THE  whole  night  through 
To  lie  waiting  for  you 
To  come  down  the  long  corridor  to  me ! 
Hints  of  you,  sweet, 
A  hundred  times  your  feet 
Near  as  the  walls  and  floors  move  wearily. 

Midnight  to  dawn, 

Bringing  oblivion, 

I  taste  the  night  sounds  as  the  stir  of  you. 

Ghosts  of  a  white 

Flame  lingering  in  flight 

When  the  torture  of  the  listening  is  through. 


48 


RICHES  AND  REVENGE 

AMID  the  pathos  of  the  decay  of  character 
I  have  found  the  highroad  leading  to  an  income, 
And  a  bland,  flaunting,  shameless  income, 
As  delicious  as  a  harlot's. 
After  all,  I  have  not  made  love  in  vain, 
And  the  women  shall  pray — and  keep  me! 
It  will  give  me  also  the  strengthening  wine 
Of  revenge  for  the  stupidities 
And  inanities  and  ruined  beauty 
Of  the  disappointing  daughters  of  Eve. 
I  have  found  all  women  stupid  save  Maenad  Mauna. 
But  she  had  too  many  characters, 
And  she  got  lost  in  them, 
And  so  I  hate  her  most  of  all. 
Shadowy  women,  why  were  you  all  so  stupid? 
You  were  all  pretty — and  Mauna  was  exquisite 
To  the  point  of  ecstasy — 
But  you  broke  my  heart, 

For  you  could  not  save  me  from  tiring  of  you. 
And  so  you  must  pay  the  penalty, 
And  it  shall  be  by  providing  me  with  an  income. 
I  have  searched  for  years  for  an  income, 
And  now  I  have  found  it, 
It  is  very  simple. 

I  have  every  letter  ever  written  to  me — 

Don't   you   remember   how   I    read   you   all    the   other 

women's  letters? 
And  I  have  read  all  the  others 
All  your  letters. 


You  learned  everything  about  one  another, 

And  each  of  you  thought  she  alone 

Had  the  secrets. 

And  the  letters — did  you  not  write  indiscreetly, 

And  damningly,  and  surrenderingly  ? 

And  I  have  all  the  letters. 

I  shall  offer  them  to  you  all  for  sale — 

Each  woman  may  buy  back  her  own  letters, 

All  but  Mauna. 

Will  you  buy? 

I  think  so. 

If  you  do  not,  I  shall  publish  them — 

Each  collection  in  a  separate  volume, 

And  then  you  will  be  lost. 

I  begin  to-morrow  having  them  typewritten, 

And  the  day  after  my  income  begins. 

I  may  spend  the  winter  pleasurably  in  Nice — 

I  can  try  my  new  system  at  Monte  Carlo. 

I  hold  your  reputations  in  my  hands, 

And  you  must  pay, 

Else  I  shall  open  my  hands,  and  you  will  be  ruined. 

It  is  useless  to  balk,  to  beseech, 

You  must  capitulate. 

For  those  of  you  who  are  recalcitrant 

I  shall  have  many  prods  of  terror — 

And  revivifying  cruelty  will  make  the  days 

Glad  and  exciting  for  me. 

Dear  women,  you  have  done  well — 
Most  of  you  have  husbands, 
And  some  of  you  have  children. 


50 


You  all  have  spcckless  names. 

Why  ever  in  the  world  were  you  so  rash 

As  to  write  me  as  you  did. 

If  you  try  to  avoid  my  levy 
I  shall  send  you  a  copy 
Of  one  of  your  letters  on  a  day 
When  you  are  giving  a  brave  dinner, 
With  a  little  printed  slip  reminding  you 
Of  the  volume  soon  to  go  to  the  printer. 
Will  it  not  chill  your  blood  ? 
Will  you  not  pay? 

But  for  you,  Maenad  Mauna, 

I  shall  have  no  mercy. 

There  was  no  excuse  for  you — 

You  were  lovely,  you  were  of  a  brain 

Satisfying  and  many-coloured  and  winding, 

And  you  ran  through  the  days 

Like  a  perfumed  breeze. 

You  could  have  charmed  me  for  the  whole  of  life — 

I  can  forgive  the  others,  but  not  you. 

I  can  forgive  the  two  who  married  me — 

They,  at  least,  divorced  me — 

But  you,  like  me,  let  your  character  go  bankrupt, 

You  were  too  many  women, 

And  so  I  lost  you. 

Your  letters  shall  be  published, 

And  you  will  lose  everything  you  now  hold  dear, 

For  you  have  become  a  striking  woman, 

And  scorn  will  sear  you. 

Why  were  you  at  all — if  you  were  not  to  remain? 

51 


WTiat  have  you  now  that  shows 

With  what  we  might  have  had  together? 

There  is  a  reason  for  every  one  else, 

But  none  for  you. 

They  were  born  stupid,  and  their  beauty  left  them, 

But  you  had  magnificent  understanding  and  hunger  for 

joy, 

And  your  beauty  only  increased 

As  you  ministered  to  your  senses. 

The  others  shall  give  me  an  income, 

But  you  will  afford  me  atonement. 

When  I  publish  the  book  of  your  letters 

You  will  be  thrust  from  your  home; 

You  will  become  a  prostitute. 

I  know  you  will  die  in  the  gutter — 

Perhaps,  when  I  see  you  there 

I  shall  cease  to  love  you, 

For  you  were  the  moon  that  might  have  saved  the  stars. 


52 


DOMESTICITIES 

I.    THE  OPERATION 

SHE  had  passed  through  the  operation  successfully 
And  her  husband  was  sitting  at  her  bedside. 
He  gazed  at  her  imperious  hair 
And  faintly  flushed  face, 

And  where  with  inviting  intimacy  her  breasts'  outline 
Came  through  the  sheet  full  and  firm. 
She  was  of  an  unbelievable  softness, 
And  her  eyes  seemed  filled  with  affection. 

He  must  go  to  business,  and  he  rose. 

Reluctant  to  leave  her — 

Then  as  he  bent  over  to  kiss  her 

His  body  throbbed  with  proud  hunger. 

He  walked  down  the  streets  happy  as  a  child 

With  a  bright  new  toy,  saying  to  himself: 

"To-day,  to-night,  to-morrow,  next  week, 

A  month,  and  she  cannot  be  unfaithful !" 


II.     FROM  A  MEADOW  OF  GARDENIAS 

THE  man  I  most  admire  of  all  the  world 
Moves  me  also  to  poignancies  of  pity. 
He  has  the  most  distinguished 
Of  the  names  of  mortals — 
It  is  Ivor  Vyvyan. 
He  married  nine  years  ago, 

And  Madame  Vyvyan  is  of  the  loveliness  of  pearls, 
Sheer  and  shimmering. 
Her  faithfulness  for  their  honeymoon 
\Vas  a  tender  perfume  that  escaped, 
Yet  when  they  returned  to  town  and  she  was  soon 
Giving  bare  shoulders  to  a  lover 
Vyvyan  seemed 

Not  to  be  caught  up  by  madness. 

It  was  manifest  he  loved  the  exquisite  Madame  Vyvyan, 
And  he  appeared  to  be  almost  happy; 
He  glittered  the  content 
Of  a  man  who  had  found  a  pot  of  gold 
At  the  rainbow's  end. 

It  has  been  without  change  for  nine  years — 

Vyvyan  still  glitters,  and  it  was  only 

A  month  ago  that  I  drew  him  to  revealment. 

And  now  I  know  he  is  the  wisest  of  human  beings. 

"She  came  to  me  from  a  meadow  of  gardenias,"  he  said, 

"And  her  hands  were  full  of  miracles — 

And  the  miracles  were  beauty! 

Beauty  is  the  only  necessary  thing  in  life, 

And  she  brought  it  alone  to  me. 

Thus  she  offered  me  everything — 


1  knew  her  then  for  the  woman  of  God. 

Through  the  years  she  has  given  me  nothing  but  beauty, 

And  she  will  remain  for  several  decades 

An  impeccably  perfect  woman. 

She  has  had  her  lovers, 

But  they  do  not  greatly  matter. 

They  take  nothing  from  her, 

For  she  unfolds  and  unfolds, 

Petal  upon  petal,  waxen,  immaculate. 

Her  beauty  is  magnificently  inexhaustible — 

She  has  no  thought  but  to  be  beautiful, 

And  for  this  she  is  the  noblest  of  women — 

She  is  the  most  devoted  of  wives, 

For  it  is  the  purest  essence  of  wifeliness, 

To  spread  for  me  the  feast  of  feasts. 

It  saves  me  from  a  search  for  beauty, 

For  one  must  be  fed. 

And  there  is  so  little  beauty  in  the  world! 

She  brings  it  me,  and  only  beauty    .    .    .   only  beauty!" 

Vyvyan  did  not  sigh  when  he  had  finished — 

It  was  that  convinced  me. 

She  was  from  a  meadow  of  gardenias. 

And  her  hands  are  full  of  miracles. 

She  walks  out  of  the  shadows  of  beauty, 

And  her  preoccupation  is  infinite. 

The  lovers,  one  and  the  hundredth,  count  for  nothing — 

Vyvyan  could  ask  no  more. 

He  has  everything! 


55 


III.     INFIDELITIES 

MY  darling,  you  write  me  charming  letters  from 
your  bed, 

They  caress  me,  and  the  darkness  covers  us, 
And  your  luminous  whispers  are  in  my  ear. 
You  call  me,  and  I  come  to  you  as  I  read, 
Eager  to  give  you  to  my  hands, 
And  be  lost  upon  your  breast. 

But  often  next  day  when  I  re-read  a  letter  I  dream, 

I  wonder,  was  not  your  husband,  while  you  wrote  it, 

In  the  next  room  rising  from  his  bath, 

And  sprinkling  rice  powder  over  himself 

Making  ready  to  come  to  you? 

Were  not  perhaps  the  words  you  wrote 

Your  torch  to  set  yourself  in  flames? 

Did  not  the  last  echoes 

Of  your  call  to  your  lover 

Help  to  sweep  you  not  too  passively 

To  accustomed  clamorous  arms? 


56 


IV.    THE  BERWIND  HOWARDS 

AS  he  entered  he  had  the  odour 
Of  the  law  courts  about  him, 
And  so  I  was  not  surprised  when  he  said : 
"At  last,  my  friend,  it  is  a  divorce." 

The  Berwind  Howards'  estrangement 

Was  of  several  years'  standing — 

She  had  been  unfaithful 

Within  a  year  of  their  marriage, 

But  he  never  reproached  her, 

And  outwardly  he  continued  to  live  with  her. 

Sometimes  I  felt  angry  with  him 

Because  he  ignored  the  great  damning  fact, 

And  thus  I  deeply  rejoiced  when  he  told  me 

Of  his  coming  freedom. 

"Will  you  be  a  witness  for  my  wife?"  he  then  asked  me. 

I  did  not  understand  him  at  first — 

"You  mean,  for  yourself?"  I  interrogated. 

"No,  no,"  he  replied  quickly. 

"My  wife  will  bring  the  suit; 

You  must  testify  against  me." 

I  was  dumfounded — 

His  conduct  was  irreproachable. 

Why  should  she  bring  action  ? 

Hers  was  the  offending — 

And  I  besought  him  for  an  untangling. 

"Of  course,  she  is  suing  me,"  he  answered. 
"Not  had  she  a  dozen  lovers 
Could  I  admit  to  my  soul 

57 


That  she  could  betray  me. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  understand 

How  a  man  can  accuse  his  wife, 

Confess  to  the  world 

That  she  has  found  another  man 

More  to  her  liking  than  himself. 

My  pride  would  not  let  me — 

I  have  never  believed  she  has  been  faithless. 

I  would  deny  it  with  my  last  breath. 

She  must  get  the  divorce — 

My  honour  demands  that  the  rabble 

Think  her  a  stainless  woman. 

For  the  Berwind  Howards  I,  not  she, 

Will  do  the  sinning. 


58 


FRAIL  PHRASES 

HER  hand  came  through  the  curtain  like  a  voice — 
He  had  pondered  this  line  in  ungestured  sadness 
As  he  walked  towards  the  Park, 
And  he  was  filled  with  enamorate  pity, 
Because  of  the  line's  perishability. 
He  reflected  hopelessly  that  a  word's  loveliness 
May  endure  but  for  a  decade, 
And  that  only  the  poets  who  hew  colossally 
Out  of  granite  great,  uncouth  figures 
Can  live  for  eternity. 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  for  the  frail  phrases, 
The  flairs  of  beauty  that  die, 
And  the  bland  insinuations  of  spring  angered  him 
In  his  valetudinarian  passage. 

As  he  crossed  the  Plaza  he  stopped  to  let  two  hansoms 

pass, 
But  they,  too,  halted,  and  from  the  first,  the  flaps  flung 

suddenly  back. 
Came  a  hand  and  a  face! 
It  was  the  chatoyant  Mrs.  Ashleigh  Norwood, 
The  most  lyrically  woven  woman  in  Philadelphia. 

She  gave  him  greeting  out  of  her  suave  prides, 
Her  inviolate  charm  and  her  renewing  beauty, 
And  he  forgot  the  profaning  of  the  phrases 
Under  the  assonances  of  her  invictive  personality. 
"Will  you  ride  with  me?"  she  asked,  and  he, 
Pointing  to  the  other  hansom  abreast  hers,  parleyed: 
"With  you,  or  in  that?" 


"Oh,  with  me,"  sloped  her  answer, 
"The  other  hansom  conveys  my  emotions — 
I  carry  with  me  only  my  powder  puff." 
Flushed  he  hung  on  her  pause,  and  held 
The  silence,   tasting  her  valorous  words; 
Then  he  bade  the  driver  make  on,  bowing  low 
As  she  was  drawn  out  of  sight. 

The  waves  crept  back,  but  he  knew  the  sea  was  coming 

in; 

Some  of  the  straightness  went  out  of  his  body, 
And  he  prepared  for  the  last  surrender. 
"Perishable  women!    Frail  phrases!" 
Then  as  he  let  drop  his  chin  upon  his  breast 
He  thought  of  the  long-entombed  praise  of  the  printer 
When  he  looked  for  the  first  time 
On  Mrs.  Norwood's  portrait: 
"And  she  might  have  killed  an  Emperor  of  France." 


60 


LIST  IN  BELLES-LETTRES 


LIST  IN  BELLES-LETTRES 

Publisbtd  by 
NICHOLAS  L.  BROWN 

PHILADELPHIA,   PA. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  SPRING.  By  Frank  Wedekind. 
A  tragedy  of  childhood  dealing  with  the  sex  question  in 
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able. These  studies  of  adolescence  are  as  impressive  as  they 
are  unique."— The  Athenaeum,  London. 

THE  CREDITOR.  By  August  Strindberg.  Translated  from 
the  Swedish  by  Francis  J.  Ziegler.  A  psychological  study 
of  the  divorce  question  by  one  of  the  greatest  Scandinavian 
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TWO  DEATHS  IN  THE  BRONX.  By  Donald  Evans.  Ebony 
grey  boards,  antique  wove  paper.  $1.00  net.  Mr.  Evans  has 
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It  is  a  gallery  of  incurable  poseurs.  Mr.  Evans's  method  of 
approach  is  irony,  and  each  poem  is  a  vial  of  acid. 

A  DILEMMA.  By  Leonidas  Andreiyeff.  Translated  from  the 
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DISCORDS.  A  volume  of  poems  by  Donald  Evans.  With  the 
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SWANWHITE.  By  August  Strindberg.  A  Fairy  Drama, 
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on  deckle  edge  paper  and  attractively  bound  in  cloth,  75  cents 
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Strindberg,  the  enemy  of  love,  sings  that  pure  love  is  all  pow- 
erful and  all-conquering." — Springfield,  Mass.,  Republican. 

THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  FIDDLER.  A  play  in  three  acts 
by  Arne  Norrevang.  Translated  from  the  Norwegian  by  Mrs. 
Herman  Sandby.  Cloth,  uncut  edges,  75  cents  net.  By  mail, 
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the  peasants  at  their  festivities. 

FOR  A  NIGHT.  A  novelette  by  Emile  Zola.  Translated  from 
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cents.  The  imaginative  realism,  the  poetic  psychology,  of  this 
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having  first  dropped  the  body  of  Colombel  over,  are  gripping^  and 
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and  Colombel,  resulting  in  the  murder,  is  depicted  with  won- 


derful  art  and  yet  without  any  coarseness.  The  author  does 
not  moralize,  but  with  relentless  pen  delineates  that  madness  of 
Therese  sown  in  her  soul  from  birth — a  madness  which  her 
convent  training  rather  enhances  than  abrogates.  The  book 
contains  two  other  typical  Zola  stories:  "The  Maid  of  the 
Dawber"  and  "Complements" — two  delightful,  crisp  bits  of 
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FROKEN  JULIE  ( COUNTESS  JULIA).  A  Naturalistic  Tragedy, 
by  August  Strindberg.  Cloth,  75  cents  net;  by  mail,  83  cents. 
Says  Mr.  James  Huneker:  It  is  an  emotional  bombshell.  The 
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a  second,  while  the  gripping  power  does  not  relax,  one  realizes 
the  writer's  deep,  almost  abysmal  knowledge  of  human  nature. 

.  .  .  Passion  there  is,  and  a  horrible  atmosphere  of  reality. 
Everything  is  brought  about  naturally,  inevitably.  Be  it  under- 
stood, Strindberg  is  never  pornographic,  nor  does  he  show  a 
naked  soul  merely  to  afford  a  charming  diversion,  which  is  the 
practice  of  some  French  dramatists.  That  kitchen — fancy  a 
kitchen  as  a  battlefield  of  souls ! — with  its  good-hearted  and 
pious  cook,  the  impudent  scoundrel  of  a  valet  eager  for 
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THE  LIVING  CORPSE  (Znrvoi  TRUP).  A  Drama  in  six  Acts 
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which  is  portrayed  with  a  satiric  pen,  "The  Living  Corpse"  is 
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SUCH  IS  LIFE.  A  Play  in  five  Acts,  by  Frank  Wedekind, 
Author  of  "The  Awakening  of  Spring/'  etc.  Second  edition. 
Cloth,  gilt  top,  raw  edge,  net,  $1.25;  by  mail,  $1.34.  Whatever 
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might  as  well  have  been  laid  at  the  present  day,  but  this  was, 
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tions and  a  clearly  outlined  plot,  full  of  color  and  action.  Por- 


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FAIRY  QUACKENBOSE.  By  Arthur  K.  Stern.  A  Fairy  Tale 
with  Modern  Improvements,  Illustrated  by  Iredell.  A  book 
for  sheer  joy  and  enjoyment  is  this  tale  of  modern  Fairyland. 
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children  of  all  ages,  if  they  be  six  or  sixty,  and  its  simple, 
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reading.  A  fairy  tale  no  parent  or  teacher  can  afford  to  be 
without.  Boards.  Net,  75  cents.  By  Mail,  84  cents. 

MODERN  AUTHORS'  SERIES. 

Under  this  title  appear  from  time  to  time  short  stories  and 
dramas,  chiefly  translations  from  the  works  of  modern  European 
authors,  each  containing  from  32  to  64  pages.  Printed  in  large, 
clear  type  and  tastefully  bound  in  gray  boards  with  paper  label. 
Each  35  cents  net;  by  mail,  40  cents.  Now  ready: 

SILENCE.  From  the  Russian  of  Leonidas  Andreiyeff.  Second 
edition.  An  unusual  short  story  that  reads  like  a  poem  in 
prose  by  the  leading  exponent  of  the  new  Russian  school  of 
novelists. 

MOTHERLOVE.  From  the  Swedish  of  August  Strindberg. 
Second  edition.  An  example  of  Strindberg's  power  as  analyst 
of  human  nature. 

A  RED  FLOWER.  By  Vsevolod  Garshin.  A  powerful  short 
story  by  one  of  Russia's  popular  authors,  unknown  as  yet  to 
the  English-speaking  public. 

THE  GRISLEY  SUITOR.  From  the  German  of  Frank  Wede- 
kind.  An  excellent  story  of  the  De-Maupassant  type. 

RABBI  EZRA  AND  THE  VICTIM.  By  Frank  Wedekind. 
Two  sketches  characteristic  of  the  pen  of  this  noted  German 
author. 

Other  volumes  in  Preparation. 


University  of  California 

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